


Vienna

by spacemonkey



Category: U2 (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 18:35:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19115371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemonkey/pseuds/spacemonkey
Summary: Smack bang in the middle of a contradiction is where Bono likes to be. Set in 1990.





	Vienna

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all, I didn't mean to write this, but then I was listening to the song this fic gets its title from, and my brain went FIC, so here we are. But it's alright, because I'm currently on holidays from uni for a few weeks, which gives me time for this and catching up on reading FICS and also NEXUS. Also, I quote Bono quoting Sam Shepard here, yet I cannot find what year Sam Shepard said this quote...let us just pretend it happened in, say, the 80s, okay? Love you all

Try as I might, there are just some days when I wake up with the sun.

A blessing and a curse, you wisely said once about this little trait of mine. You, who claims to do your best work during the dead of night, and often throws in the towel to burrow beneath the covers around the same time I’m waking like a bemused owl, recognizes that there is some benefit in dragging your arse out of bed to seize the day as it begins.

And yet, I still cannot get you to commit to my ideologies.

“It’s not just that I work better when everyone has given up for the night,” you told me one early afternoon over what you deemed to be a cup of morning coffee, bleary-eyed but still with it enough to give me that look, the one that always casts me in the role of the distractor. I imagine you sometimes think—but never say to me, because you are far too noble—you might have discovered the cure for cancer by now if it weren’t for me keeping you out drinking or whatever the fuck when you are at your most productive. “No, it’s also the reality that we are in a profession where we’re constantly finding ourselves observing odd hours, whether that be our fault or because of someone else. I mean, who, besides you and maybe Adam, wants to get up at six am after getting in at three?”

It was a fair point, of course, the reason for the curse side of things. But I wasn’t about to let you win that easily.

Yet when I countered by laying down a few hard facts of life (fact one: I don’t always _want_ to get up, it just happens. Fact two: sometimes I don’t go to sleep when I get in and instead keep on with my harmless bender. Fact three: after a night of throwing back tequila, I will threaten defenestration if anyone tries to disturb me before midday. Fact four: you know all of this from past experiences and yet you still love me), you merely smiled like a father witnessing their son finally mastering simple multiplication at the age of thirty.

We’re yin and yang in so many ways. And now here I am, wide awake and contemplating how well we fit together. This isn’t the first time such a notion has crossed my mind, and it definitely won’t be the last. But I’ve never done it before with you in the bed beside me.

A change is as good as a holiday, isn’t that what they always say? Look at us, then, experiencing a transformative vacation while attempting to work on an album! And look at you now, drooling on my pillow. How is it that you make even that seem elegant?

God, just _look at you_.

You wouldn’t crucify me for waking you up, not this morning. In fact, you might even smile my way. For that reason and so many more, it is tempting to gently rouse you back into the world of living, but I don’t. I can’t.

The prospect of talking to you about important things— _life_ things—before breakfast is just too daunting to consider right now. When did I become such a chickenshit? A recent development, it seems, following a significant bout of boldness on both our parts.

There are some things you can only admit in the dead of the night, innermost secrets brought on by a different kind of intimacy. What had I said to you? Oh, so many things, I’m sure. Specifically? It’s hard to pinpoint after such an evening, though I might just be lying to myself. But maybe it will come back to me after a dose of reality or enough caffeine to stop my heart for good. And who knows? Perhaps that might be a blessing in disguise.

I know you too well, is the problem. Enough to know what question will be burning you up inside from the moment you open your eyes (though probably even before that): _do you regret it?_ Though I doubt you’ll ask it this morning, it will come out at some point, and until it does we’ll both be contemplating my eventual answer.

It won’t be a yes. I think we both know this already—though you’ll still err on the side of doubt for at least a little while, as is your way—and that’s why it’s so fucking terrifying. Affair is such an ugly word, but it’s applicable here. And really, is this the path we should be taking? Fuck no, of course not, especially now when you've been taking such a beating from life (although maybe that's one of the many reasons why you need this so much?). But now that we’ve started, will we be able to stop? I imagine _fuck no_ will also be the correct answer here. And why is that?

It’s hard to know for sure yet, so early in, but given that I could be having a nice long shower or enjoying a sneaky smoke right now but instead I’m sitting here starry-eyed as I watch you blissfully snore, I think it’s fair to say I’m already in too deep.

Look at us: me, overthinking; you, naked in my bed. A couple of eejits, for sure. You’re actually naked in my bed, Edge. It’s insanity that we made it this far, but we have.

And it’s all because of you. You and your quiet courage.

Sam Shepard once said that being in the centre of a contradiction is the place to be, and he was right. I’ve told you this before, and I think you agreed with the sentiment, though you never said it out loud. If I remember correctly, you just smiled in response, and that was that. It’s all I’ve ever needed to paint us a story that has for so long stayed unwritten: one mysterious grin, one glance my way.

I tell you things, I quote playwrights like I know what I’m talking about, and you humour me, tell me your own snippets of knowledge while I marvel at the size of your brain, and then we carry on as though everything is fine and dandy, nothing to consider, nothing to be changed. Until now.

When you looked at me last night the pieces settled into their final position. And when you held my gaze in such a way that we both had no choice but to admit defeat, I realized that there was no place else I currently wanted to be. There in the club, jostled by the crowd as ‘Vienna’ played over the speaker, _this means nothing to me_ being repeated as I thought the complete opposite. I soon changed my mind, however, when the suggestion was made with a simple nod toward the exit. There is one other place, as long as you're by my side.

And as we left the club behind and walked the slick streets in search of transport to a warm room, it wasn’t the lyrics of the song that stuck with me, but the beat. One that took me right back to that short period where I would hear it everywhere, when we had no idea what we were in for.

You were all elbows and cheekbones then, still boyish in so many ways. Hearing that song, remembering that beat made me look at you in the taxi and see all the ways you haven’t changed. You’re still that same boy at heart, aren’t you? Doubting yourself when you shouldn’t, yet determined enough to succeed that you made it to the top. The band. Marriage. Family. And now me.

I saw that doubt last night, though you hid it so well. It’s not like us to be nervous around one another, but this wasn’t exactly ordinary circumstances, was it? But you were still outwardly calm, and I was procrastinating because . . . I don’t know why (yes, I do). _Another drink, Edge? There were a lot of people out tonight, don’t you think, Edge? Wow, would you take a look at all those stars, Edge, isn’t that just something?_

“Do you want me to leave?” was your eventual response to my rambling, your smile saying _I get it_ , your eyes pleading _don’t make me go_.

It surprised us both, how quickly I admitted, “No, that’s the last thing I want.” But it was the truth, and it freed us both.

I had fantasized about that first moment so much that, had you not been beside me when I woke up, I probably would have believed it to be a dream. The two of us, just a step away from reality as you kissed me, as I cracked some ill-timed joke that somehow made you laugh, as you stopped laughing. And my, Edge, those arms of yours as strong as I figured they would be, not to mention all your other winning attributes.

In retrospect, it’s a bit funny how silent we were in the immediate aftermath, staring up at the ceiling as we passed a cigarette between us in bed. It takes a lot to shut me up, as you know, but sheer astonishment that this actually happened was enough to do the trick. And you, Edge . . . I imagine you were just quietly taking it all in, as is your way.

You’re not quiet now; in fact, had you been anyone else I probably would have smothered you with a pillow to shut you up. But it is you now, and it was you last night. The same dude who skimmed his fingertips over my sticky stomach as I stubbed out our cigarette, who looked at me in awe before moving in to kiss me, only to be stopped by my anxious overcompensation. That dude. You weren’t angry for the interruption, though—when have you ever been pissed at me running my mouth, except for all those times when it was earned?

And what did I say to you? Oh, so many things, and you responded in kind—tentative at first, until I encouraged you with a flustered smile—with a story that was actually meaningful compared to my fucking bullshit.

“Do you remember those times we had to share a bed during that first tour? Remember how I would always sleep underneath the covers and you would be on top of them, because that’s just what we did, wasn’t it? But it wasn’t like you needed a blanket. From what I've heard, you always ran so hot in bed that you could heat an entire commune. I imagine that still applies.”

“You tell me.”

“I’ll conduct my research and get back to you on that. Anyway, there was one night when you had gone out like a light—no surprise there—and I had spent a couple of hours counting sheep and getting nowhere, so I found my attention drifting elsewhere. To you, the second most interesting thing in the room.”

“Excuse me? _Second?_ Edge, I’ll have you know—”

“I’m sorry, but I seem to remember a _Playboy_ magazine or two sharing the room with us that night. And at the time, that was my priority over . . . look, I soon forgot about the _Playboy_ , because you had no fucking shirt on, and I thought it would be a great idea to mentally play connect the dots with the freckles on your back, to pass the time and hopefully bore me to sleep. But instead, my mind started to wander, as it often does when you’re tired, and it . . . I remember being surprised at where my thoughts went, but I didn’t try that hard to distract myself elsewhere, and I eventually had to sneak off into the bathroom to shamefully do what all boys do when left to their own devices. Only you, B, could make me . . . I was so confused and, well, freaked, because I’d never considered you like that before. And I’d hoped that it was just a one-time thing, because, you know. But it wasn’t.”

I have my own story, of course, one that I told you in full, that made you laugh like you were relieved to hear it. What did I say? I’ve recited in my head so many times over the years—a confession in full that never made it out into the open air until after the act—that it should have been like reading from a script, and yet I stumbled over it, like a fucking wanker. Your fingers moving against the strings of your guitar like they always did. My mind deciding one day to take that image and apply it elsewhere. Had it become an obsession? Wasn’t everything that fascinated me in this world worthy of such intense interest? You were right near the top of my list, well above The Beatles. I told you that, didn’t I? Yes. I said it all, until you touched me again with those fingers, that mouth, coming to straddle me like you thought we still had the energy for a second round. And maybe we did, and maybe we had.

Look at you, dead to the world but still managing to turn me completely upside down. How could I ever ask us both to walk away from this? I should. I can't.

I won't.

“Do you remember,” you started at some point during the night, “that time you dared me to lift you up?”

I did, but why admit it outright when I could instead hear the story from your perspective? “Was I drunk at the time?”

“We both were. Isn’t that usually how these things start? We were a bit pissed, and you needed to see if I could pick you up, and then when I did, you wrapped your legs around my waist like a fucking tart.”

“That is an incredibly specific detail that I don’t recall.”

“Are you sure?”

“You know me, Edge.”

“I do. So tell me why you pulled that move.”

“Which one? The dare, or—”

“Both.”

“It was important for me to know that you were strong enough to pick me up. As for wrapping my legs around you, my aim there was to keep you from dropping me on my arse. Perfectly innocent intentions, Edge, so get your mind out of the gutter.”

“I can’t. You know why?”

“Tell me.”

“Because when you did that, all I could think was how much I wanted to stay in between your legs after throwing you on the bed, then . . .”

“Then what?”

It’s amazing, how quickly you can turn from confident to bashful, though rarely has that ever stopped you from baring your soul. “Make you mine.”

And you did last night, after slipping your hand in my pants and allowing yourself to be pulled closer before briefly breaking us apart. You were just following through with your wants and needs when you pushed me back against the bed and kneeled between my parted legs, weren’t you, love? After all that time . . . how long has it been since that drunken evening? Two years? Three?

“So why didn’t you?”

“You know why.”

I did. “I do.”

“We still made it here eventually.”

We were always destined to end up here, in the end. I’m a big believer in fate, while you go back and forth, but I know that we both would agree that this thing between us was inevitable.

We won’t be able to stop. Would you even want to? I can’t stand the thought of you saying those words to me, the regretful expression that would cross your face. You wouldn’t. You just wouldn’t. I saw how you were last night, I’m seeing you now. Still perfectly content in my bed, the sheet riding low against your bare thigh.

I’m touching you before I even know it. You don’t have nearly as many freckles as I do, but I can still draw a featherlight line between two and go from there, until the novelty wears off and self-assurance comes into play. After all this time, I’m finally able to rest my palm against your naked skin, to touch you as much as I would like. And I do, and of course you stir, but I’m not worried anymore. I want you to wake up. I need your conscious and calming presence at my side.

It happens in pieces: a fluttering of your eyelashes, a _five more minutes_ groan, but then you are awake and looking my way. You smile, and that’s all it takes to convince me of what I already know.

Everything will be okay.


End file.
